In which we are hidden in the blind in full camo, biding our time

I’m mostly lying in wait, on the lookout for shenanigans.

Once a tournament has virtually shut down, there isn’t much more the folks who will anything, including pretending to be someone else, can actually do. Once we’ve passed you by, and there’s no room anyhow, you’re sort of done. You can try to make a stink, but seriously now, do you really think that’s going to work? Every potential stink has already been made in the past, and I can only remember one time anyone caved (and then the team didn’t show up, thus building the resolve of the cavers never to cave again). So shenanigans (or their dreaded siblings, henanigans) will have to come from elsewhere. I’m pretty sure I know where, and I’m going to be keeping my eye in that direction. I’ll share it with you shortly. I don’t want to just breeze by it, for fear of not having my point get along as strongly as I would like. The thing is, nowadays I live for she and he nanigans. It’s the nanigans that breathe life into this old body. CP used to maintain that tabroom.com would eliminate the need for tabbing. No. Not with all the nanigans on the prowl.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my replacement at Sailorville is not presently happening. The ensign chosen for the task did not take the bait (which is a really terribly confused metaphor or unintended pun or something like that). Seeing that sign over the door of the building, “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate,” might have dissuaded him. Which reminds me of one of my favorite rhymes, “Inferno’s Dante” and “the great Durante.” The former, by the way, is the author of that particular line in Italian, but the Great Schnozzola was also Italian, so there you are. Or not, as the case may be. Any who, Durante or Dante, Mahatma Gandhi or Napoleon Brandy, and we’re not even going to mention the naughty lyrics, (well, actually, we did mention them, but we won’t cite them), the Sailors are once again back to a ship without a commander. Sigh.